A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. "You will not make it valueless in my eyes," he added, catching her in his arms, and pressing her to his breast. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.
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